


the magic kingdom

by sphesphe



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, M/M, Multi, Mutant Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-30 12:51:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphesphe/pseuds/sphesphe
Summary: David contemplates secrets, the fabric of space-time, and the ineffable nature of chemistry.In the meantime, Pasta wants to go to Disneyland.





	the magic kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [detentionlevel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/detentionlevel/gifts).



> Because [this](http://wherethepastaat.tumblr.com/image/157503121160), of course.
> 
> Hope you like it <333333 and thanks to the rarebears mods and all the participants!

Peter’s got a great big red-black cut on his face, high on his left cheekbone. On his smooth face it draws the eye like grisly roadkill.

David looks at it longer than he should. He forces his attention to the ensuing power play, during which the Bruins fail to score.

Peter — Celly, some of the guys call him, faintly ribbing — throws himself around with the energy of someone who needs to work his way into the lineup. He’s working hard. So hard it hurts a little to watch him.

David understands the pressure he’s under. Together, he and Pasta and David create chances, but Peter’s shots whistle just wide, just shy of registering an official shot on goal.

Still, even without producing anything tangible yet, David feels that something’s maybe coming to life in the kinetic minutes their line is on the ice. It's sparking, somewhere under his fingers. That elusive magic liable to dissolve when you try to analyze or reproduce it: chemistry.

Given that their coach was just fired partly because of its lack, its appearance now comes off as capricious, bittersweet. But it’s working — David finds Pasta across the ice, Pasta carries it in; Peter stakes out territory near the net in case of a rebound, though this time it’s Pasta who fires it in past Ryan Miller. The game-winning goal, which means two points, and hopeful portents for future alchemy.

David tries to unqualify his happiness from the win and just let himself _enjoy_ it. But there’s a thread of doubt, always lurking in the back of his mind. He's always had it, but these few years have made it stronger.

Back in the locker room, David observes Peter unclasp a dull gray bracelet of plastic from where it’s been hidden under his glove. Because he’s watching, he notices the precise moment when the crusted scab on Peter’s cheekbone becomes momentarily even crustier and more disgusting, then shrinks like a lump of snow in spring rain. Peter absently scratches at it, revealing fresh unbroken skin underneath the dried-up remains.

Hot envy blooms in David’s chest, out of nowhere, mixed with — something else, something ashamed and confused and protective. His hands clench, hard.

It’s not like he didn’t know Peter was different — everyone has been told. But seeing it is another thing.

Peter’s eyes flick over and catch on David’s stare for a moment. The moment lingers, spirals into thumping awkwardness.

Peter goes faintly pink and drops a pad, cuts his eyes away hard. Embarrassed, David sets about his own business. He hopes Peter doesn’t think he’s staring because of what Peter is. Although, of course, he sort of is. There’s no way to explain _that_ , so he opts to pretend nothing happened at all. He says nice things about Peter to the media later and hopes Peter will forgive or forget.

 

#

“We should go to Disneyland,” Pasta announces, looking up from his phone, even though they’re eating dinner together in David’s kitchen. “I’ve been doing research. It looks fun.” 

Kids these days, David thinks fondly. They’ve spent a productive bye week day at the driving range. Pasta has not been successful at actual golf, but he has been extraordinarily successful at driving David to distraction with casually possessive touches when no one’s looking.

“Isn’t that the boring one?” David says mildly. He doesn’t actually have anything against the idea, but it doesn’t do to give Pasta everything he asks without _some_ resistance.

“It’s the original one,” Pasta says. “The OG Disney. It’s got history, right? We’ll have a free day in Anaheim, don’t you want to go instead of sitting around the hotel?”

“We could go golfing on an actual course.”

“Come onnnnn. You know you want to. I'll make it worth your while. You won’t regret it,” Pasta says, with an expression that’s meant to be a leer and instead just makes David laugh. “Are you laughing at me? Don't laugh.” And he wiggles his eyebrows, making David laugh harder.

“Fine. We can go anywhere you like. There’s nothing I like more than fighting off small children for the best spots in line.” David gives in, as he was always fated to do. “Do you want to invite the other guys? What about Peter? I’m sure he’ll be called back up for the road trip.”

“You can invite Celly,” Pasta decides. “For the sake of liney chemistry. All the other lines can plan their own fun. Look, there’s a ride called _Hyper_ space Mountain,” and he shoves his phone at David to show him a video. David gets mostly distracted by looking at him instead.

He never meant to get this kind of involved with Pasta. He tries not to interrogate it too much now, for fear of coming to the conclusion that he shouldn’t be. Now that he’s in it, he wants to keep it. Might need it, in a selfish, animal way, resistant to reason. Pasta's too important.

David never learned to adjust that well to change. Change keeps finding him, and shaking him like a dog with a hapless chew toy.

For example: they haven’t talked too much about Claude being fired since it happened. It’s on all of them, David knows, but it winds one more ribbon into the braid of guilt and doubt and abandonment that’s knotted its way into his psyche.

Maybe the NHL isn’t the most permanent environment, but also, David understands, maybe it’s not totally a coincidence that everyone he derives joy from playing with, being with, ends up gone. Some days he’s gloomily convinced it’s a kind of punishment for keeping the secrets that he keeps, for messing with the team’s karma and thereby fucking up the chemistry, the magic that holds them together.

On other days, there’s Pasta.

Pasta, who doesn’t know and doesn’t need to be burdened with David’s shit — who’s young and happy and good, who shows David a series of Disneyland hype videos and then looks expectantly at David with a wide grin.

David tugs him in willingly for a kiss. He casts everything else aside for this, here, now — acutely aware of the time sliding steadily away. He knows better than anyone how it's constantly ticking down to some unknown but inevitable end.

 

#

Peter does get called back up to join the long California road trip. He slides into David’s line for practice with manic seriousness in his eyes, like he can prove he belongs through determination alone.

In between drills, David leans in and tells him, “Relax.”

Peter looks back all startled, like an extremely oversized and solidly built rabbit. David continues, “You know, you probably don’t need to use the murder eyes on your own teammates.”

“Save it for the Sharks!” Pasta agrees, skating by and stick-tapping Peter lightly on the side.

“Sorry,” Peter says, flushing, and laughs ruefully. “Trying too hard?”

“You’re fine,” David repeats, and knocks into him gently, unable to help himself. So much for not getting attached. But if he's honest with himself, to him they're already connected by certain invisible strings, even if Peter doesn't know they exist.

Peter remains focused but ratchets the crazy eyes down a notch. It’s just practice, but it goes well: learning the feel of one another, laying a foundation for something better.

 

So of course during the game against the Sharks their line flounders — passes going sloppy, communication a step off. Peter’s holding his stick too tight; he's wound up, anxious. David can’t totally blame him.

It’s 1-1 going into the second period. Peter gets tangled in fighting for the puck along the boards in a knot of guys. David sees him stumble and fall, sees him get back up.

The ref blows the whistle. David can’t figure out why, mind mostly on the puck until he sees a dark line appearing grotesquely on Peter’s neck and expanding surreally. For a second David doesn’t recognize what he’s seeing, but yes— that’s _blood_ , he realizes.

David almost loses it. He almost does, the power sitting right at his fingertips — rusty but simmering to the touch. He knows exactly how to—

He doesn’t. Despite the adrenaline spiking through his veins, he closes his eyes, shoves the urge inward and tries to use his brain instead of disastrous instinct.

Peter skates to the bench, hand clamped to his neck, to be surrounded by the medical staff and hurried with extreme urgency down the tunnel.

 _He’ll be fine,_ he hears himself distantly think. _You know what his ability is. They’ll take the suppression bracelet off and he’ll just heal, like that. He’s fine._

What if it was someone else, who had no healing ability? What if it was Quaider, or Skey, or Bergy? David wonders. What would he have chosen then?

He doesn’t know. Hopefully he doesn't ever have to test it.

Everyone’s pretty wide-eyed after that, exchanging stories about other guys they’ve known who’ve gotten cut and had to be sewn up. Word arrives from medical that Peter’s fine, and that helps, but the nervous edge takes longer to dissipate. It’s one of everyone’s worst fears, playing this game where people strap knives to their feet, go flail around on slippery ice, and diligently try to knock each other down.

The period ends without any further accident. Peter’s in the locker room, whole and unharmed and wolfing down a banana.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Celly, you scared the shit out of everyone,” Marchy says, first to voice what everyone’s thinking.

“I’m fine,” Peter says. He looks more embarrassed than scared. “Sorry, but you know. Good thing it was me, you know?”

“Not even a single stitch, huh?” Frankie says, the whites of his eyes betraying how freaked out he is.

“No—well. It’s my ability. I heal fast.” Peter hunches in on himself, but soldiers on. “They just took off the bracelet and my powers kicked in.”

“Man. That’s so fucking useful,” Marchy says. “I played with a guy in juniors who was— you know— had powers too, but his thing was being able to light fires with his brain. Which for a hockey player is like, the worst power to have.”

Peter shrugs a tiny, tense shrug. “It doesn’t make me better at hockey. Just at not getting hurt.”

“Oh come on. That _is_ fucking great.”

“No scars though,” Millsy notes. “Women love scars. You’re missing out, Celly.”

Peter laughs, relaxing slightly and moving on to a second banana. It takes a lot of energy to use one’s powers. “I know. It’s no good.”

David’s own heart is still pounding, plucking an anxious beat in time with his nerves. Peter glances over and David can’t even meet his eyes.

“Yeah. Terrible,” Marchy agrees. “Who’d want a hockey player with no scars? Everyone’ll think you’re soft, even though you’re badass as hell.”

“Really glad you’re okay, Celly,” Bruce says, coming into the room and shutting everyone up. “Thank our lucky stars there was no permanent harm done. Wish I was as resilient as you. Okay, now let’s make our own luck in the next period and focus on tightening up the passes in the neutral zone.”

David somehow manages to block out the incident and his feelings. It helps that Peter’s fine, back on David’s line. They get the win in OT, thanks to Marchy. It’s almost like nothing even happened.

Almost.

“Do you feel it’s fair that people with superhuman abilities can play in the same league as everyone else?”

The reporter’s question isn’t aimed at David, but he hears it anyway, and completely loses track of what he was saying to the Sharks beat reporter interviewing him. 

“Of course it’s fair,” Bruce starts, “since they’re all registered and the league monitors the suppression of their abilities, and since otherwise Peter could have been seriously—”

“David?” the reporter prompts, and David has to stop eavesdropping. Peter’s surrounded by the most media, naturally. There was a bit of uproar when he went back onto the ice without even a mark. But after all, he’s properly registered, and it’s all perfectly legal, even if prejudice might declare otherwise.

“Sorry. Yeah,” David says vaguely, and gives a bland answer about coming off the bye week. He’s still unsettled, and glad when everyone’s done with him.

Pasta finds him, bumps companionably into his shoulder. “You okay?” he says, quietly.

“Yes, of course. I’m fine,” David says. “Shouldn’t you be asking Peter that?”

“You look kind of funny, that’s all.”

“Oh, I do? Thanks a lot,” David grouses, but all the same, Pasta’s presence does help. He manages a smile that he hopes is reassuring. “It freaked me out a little. It’s nothing.”

Pasta pulls him into a hug. Something about the clean scent of him, the easy weight of his arms, tethers David back to the here and now, carries him home to the present. He breathes into Pasta's hair and settles.

“Whoa, where’s my hug?” Marchy demands, somewhere across the room, so Pasta laughs and goes to drape himself obnoxiously over Marchy.

David breathes out, in; puts himself back together. He’s got an A; he’s got responsibilities, and a linemate who's just gone through a lot and could probably use some reassurance. He puts on his best leadership face and shoves his own worries away to deal with at some unknown future time.

He finds Peter still in the locker room, just sitting. He looks faintly overwhelmed, contemplating the ground, but he looks up when David approaches.

“Hey. I’m really glad you’re okay,” David tells him sincerely.

“I know. But it’s not a big deal, really,” Peter insists. “Don’t want everyone to be paying so much attention to this instead of my play. Because I didn’t play so well.” A moment of hesitation. “I don’t want to be sent down. I want to help,” he admits, utterly serious and more or less disregarding the injury altogether.

Pangs of guilt mingle with a surge of affection in David’s chest for this kid — so solid and literally unbreakable, but so desperate to fit here that it hurts. “You’re still coming with us the day after tomorrow, right?” David asks, as mildly as he can. “To Disneyland. It’ll be good to get your mind off things.”

Peter blinks at him, searching David’s face. David’s not sure what he finds, but he seems to relax a fraction. “Yeah. If you still want me.”

“Of course,” David says, and puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s reassuring to feel the solid warm bulk of him. “You’re my winger, aren’t you? One whose neck is intact, even. I like that in a guy. Everything’s good.”

Peter flushes just a tiny bit, and his hand comes up seemingly unconsciously to rub at his neck, right where the skate sliced, where the skin is now smooth and clean. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Come on then,” David says. “You know, if you come out tonight, everyone’s going to buy you so many drinks.”

Peter smiles, tentative but growing less so. David knows it’s a bad idea — recognizes the shakiness of the ground beneath him, how sure it is to be pulled out from under him. Regardless: he smiles back.

 

#

Disneyland is very, very clean. Everything is brightly colored despite overcast gray skies, and there appear to be no sharp edges anywhere in sight. The American idea of a fantasy castle, to someone who grew up in a country full of heaps of hulking grim old castles, appears with the sweet naiveté of a child. There’s an air of exaggerated, sanitized nostalgia that David doesn’t necessarily recognize or share in. He’s an observer, a stranger in a strange land.

Pasta likes the Disneyland castle, and the ferris wheel with Mickey Mouse on it. He asks Peter: “Take a picture of us? You know it doesn’t count if it’s not on Snapchat.”

Peter laughs and takes the phone. Pasta leans back against the iron railing, lets his elbow knock easily into David’s. He’s generous with his personal space, and much else too.

“We need one with Peter as well,” David suggests, so they flag down a Disney cast member to operate the phone, get back into their positions. Peter stands to the side, stiff before the camera’s fixed eye.

It’s not too terribly busy. It’s not warm, for California, and the sun isn’t shining. David follows a few steps behind, lets Pasta and Peter lead the way and listens to them chatter.

Pasta asks, “What’s your favorite Disney movie, Celly?” 

“As a kid, it was the Lion King. But then they made Lifted, so...”

“Oh, right. As your favorite liney, I should have known that!” Pasta says with a knowing look. David hasn’t watched any new Disney movies more or less since the Lion King, but he does know when his linemate prowess is being dissed. “Peter, remember who gives you the best passes,” David says, with dignity, “and tell me who’s _really_ your favorite liney.”

“You’re both my favorite?” Peter says, which earns him approval of his tact at least. Then Pasta asks Peter about his time in the Swedish Elite League, which leads to an exchange of stories about coaches and players and places they both know, as they wander the beautiful cartoon streets.

David doesn’t have much to contribute to the conversation. Instead he looks at the families passing by, lets his mind wander. Inevitably, it occurs to him to wonder how many times Milan came here with his own family, back when he played for LA. 

With that, it becomes instantly natural to picture Milan here on these broad, bright-colored streets. He’s larger than life himself — he’d fit right in. Valentina resting easily in his arms, Brittany pushing the carriage. A perfect, complete unit.

It feels natural that they’d belong here, that they could turn up at any second, coming around a random corner. David can picture that too: they’d wave and exclaim, _It’s so good to see you, it’s been way too long..._

They’d all enfold each other in hugs, they’d get lunch and catch up and tell stories and make jokes... and then, at some point, Valentina would get fussy, and Brittany would have something she needed to do later. And they’d all say long goodbyes, and then they’d — go.

David gets it. He had his time with Looch. It was a good time. More time than he would have had, if it wasn’t for his particular abilities. He can tell himself that he’s lucky.

Yet it passed away in the end, despite everything David had in his power to stop it. The fabric of space-time might stretch like spandex in the right hands, but it shrinks implacably back towards the shape it was always meant to take. Against the weight of the universe, David’s wishes bounce off like a pebble on a trampoline, to lie inert and abandoned.

“Krej?” Pasta says, breaking into David’s increasingly maudlin thoughts. “We want to go on this ride, you coming?”

David manages a shrug. “Well. Why not?”

It’s a giant log in a fake river of water. The word _splash_ is prominently in the name. “Am I going to regret this?” David wonders, when they come to the front of the line.

“I thought you knew what ride this was,” Pasta says, grinning at David’s obvious skepticism. “Come on, you’ll love it!”

The log before them fills up and floats away, leaving them at the front of the line for the approaching empty log. “You two take the front row,” David suggests, but Pasta grabs his arm.

“No, you should go in the front. You’ll get the best view. Or what, scared of a little water?”

“I’ll sit in the back,” Peter says hastily. “Please. My two favorite lineys deserve the best splashing— I mean, view.”

“Oh, god,” David says, but he gets into the front. Pasta takes the seat next to him and looks over with a chip-toothed grin, gifted with such prodigal freedom that it makes David’s heart faintly ache.

They float forward. Arrays of bewildering animatronic animals pass by, accompanied by bewildering songs. David hasn’t the least idea what the story is supposed to be about. “I’m so glad I’m getting the best possible view of this,” he says.

“Celly, can you see over Krej’s big head?” Pasta calls cheerfully. “I’d explain everything, but it’s too complicated.”

Peter says, “Didn’t this movie come out before you were born?”

“You weren’t born either!” Pasta accuses, which succeeds in making David feel his age, although he actually suspects even he wasn’t born in the year of this ride’s origin. But then the log is going upwards, and then they pass the apex and tip rapidly down, and people shriek as great splashings of water go everywhere, especially down David’s front.

He comes off the ride damp and blinking water out of his lashes. Beside him, Pasta tosses his wet hair like a golden retriever; Peter grins like a loon, his general air of reserve temporarily punctured, and David has to admit his heart rate _is_ pleasantly elevated.

“The front row is the best, right?” Pasta asks.

“I need an umbrella,” David complains, but secretly he has to agree.

They pass the booth where maniacally cheerful employees try to sell you photos of yourself from halfway down the ride. David looks at himself in the picture — his eyes squinting against the splashing water, his mouth wide open in an embarrassing, giant rictus.

“Good look for you,” Pasta says, darting glances full of gleeful laughter in David’s direction, the gift of his joy wrapped in every word. “I’m going to have it framed.” David feigns betrayal, but— examining the picture more closely, he recognizes the look of someone who hasn't been _altogether_ abandoned by happiness.

Other rides follow. They amass a collection of FastPass tickets and rush in haphazard and inefficient fashion around the park to try and arrive at rides during their scheduled time window.

“How come I can’t be the holder of the tickets?” Pasta demands, completely insincere, because he _knows_ why.

David tells him anyway. “Because I’ve seen you lose bits of paper within thirty seconds of getting them in your hands. And your passport, more than once. Peter, take the tickets. Congratulations. You’re holder of the tickets.”

Peter clutches at the tickets like they’re made of gold. He handles the logistical challenges admirably, considering the lack of all planning or organization. They only miss a FastPass window once, and the employees let them on anyway, thanks to David’s sweet-talking. "Smooth," he congratulates himself once they make it into the ride, and Pasta grins and glows and says, " _This_ time."

There’s a haunted house. Peter _hates_ the haunted house. He pretends he doesn’t, but flinches at every single noise. Even after they emerge into daylight he still looks vaguely on edge.

Pasta says, “Celly, you can’t even be hurt, can you? How can you be scared?” 

“I was _surprised,_ ” Peter insists. “Anyway, I _can_ be hurt. It doesn’t last, but it still _hurts_. And then afterwards I get really tired and hungry and it’s not that much fun.” He shuts his mouth abruptly, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh, I understand then. In that case, I’ll protect you,” Pasta promises. “And if I fail, Krej will protect both of us with his intimidating glares.”

“Sure. I'm very scary," David says with dignity, and continues, "but I’d definitely let the ghosts take both of you.” He ignores the twinge of guilt even as Pasta laughs and declares, “This is why I should be favorite liney.”

To make himself feel better and to reclaim the favorite liney title, he buys everyone matching special edition Star Wars pins. Pasta trades his at least four times with children behind them in waiting lines, and ends up with a questionable knockoff that even a Disney employee refuses to trade for. David offers his own in exchange, but Pasta shrugs with his easy grin, doesn’t seem to mind.

There’s Hyperspace Mountain. Even David comes out of that one disoriented and exhilarated.

After that, they’re starving. They’d only had time for a hurried snack in between rides and shops and shows, so when Peter points out a food stand named The Hungry Bear they agree it’d be tempting fate not to go.

It’s near the fake river where the fake log ride continues its splashing. At this hour it’s relatively peaceful, a smooth curve of water showing preternaturally clear reflections. The clouds have mostly cleared from the sky, turning to washed gold from burgeoning sunset: the time of day photographers call the magic hour.

There’s a Disney employee outside the a nearby ride dressed in a green and yellow. She’s pretty and dark-skinned, made up to look like a character that David isn’t familiar with. He has about as much interest in the Disney characters as he has in quitting hockey to become a professional unicyclist. But this one draws his eye.

She’s got a necklace with a glowing green LED light on it, and she’s using her hands to make things float.

A gaggle of kids surround her, drawn like moths to the spectacle. She levitates a few hats, some bottles of water, even someone’s sandwich briefly before floating it back into the man’s grasp. She’s talking the entire time, smiling broadly, making jokes and patter.

David thinks it has to be fake — something with wires, or—

But he watches, fascinated and strangely anxious, and certainty gradually coalesces. It’s real.

“You haven’t seen this movie?” Peter asks, tentative. He and Pasta have both been just as interested in the performance, craning their necks to stare.

“No. What’s it called— Lifted? I thought it was about airplanes, or balloons,” David shrugs, helpless in his ignorance. “Something like that.”

Peter huffs a laugh. “No, it’s about— you know, people like me. Mutants.” His eyebrows lift meaningfully. “I know I’m older than the intended audience, and this might sound so lame, but... that movie was still really important to me. You know? There’s not so many movies about people like me where we’re not the bad guys.”

“It’s not lame. I’ve seen it too,” Pasta says. “It’s really good, no matter how old you are. Krej, you're definitely going to have to watch it with me and Peter soon. Liney movie night.”

“It’s amazing they found someone in real life with that ability,” David says distantly. He thinks of the movies he grew up with. People like— well, like them, like _him_ — were the bad guys, or the freakish sidekicks. His role models were the witches at the end of the fairy tales.

“She looks just like the character, too,” Peter says.

The woman looks over and catches them all staring. She smiles and waves, then points a knowing finger in their direction.

David’s napkin floats up to his eye level. In slow motion, it pleats itself into a paper plane. Once complete, it glides towards her and begins to orbit her like a tiny moon. She winks, turns away to talk to a nearby boy.

David laughs in delight. How could anyone not? It’s magic.

 _They’re_ magic. His people. David watches her, watches Pasta and Peter messily inhaling their sandwiches and sweet potato fries. His body feels heavy with longing, edged with envy.

The exhausted sun levitates lower and lower on the horizon. After they’ve finally had their fill of food and telekinesis, Pasta suggests, “We should go find a good spot to watch the fireworks, before we have to fight off too many kids. Peter, you’re the power forward, you can hip-check them out of the way.”

“Oh, what's this? Are we staying for the fireworks?” David asks. He thinks he even sounds pretty normal, which is nice.

“We _have_ to stay for the fireworks.”

“I mean,” Peter says. “We’ve already come all this way.” He slants a half-conspiratorial smile at Pasta, then over at David. “I’ll do my part. I can take on any number of children.”

David is helpless not to smile back, even as his heart flips in his ribcage. “Well. All right then.”

As they get up to go, a family approaches the Disney actress with purpose. They’re a couple with a girl of maybe six, her face frozen in the glassy expression children get when they’re completely overwhelmed with feeling.

The father steps closer. David overhears him say, “My daughter’s got powers too. She _loves_ you—” as they walk away, and he doesn’t hear the rest, but it’s enough to drown his heart in complex song — an undeniable happiness, shot through with a wistfulness that feels akin to pain.

 

#

Disneyland takes on a different atmosphere after the sun goes down. Less cartoonish, festooned with pink and green and white lights casting long colored shadows. Only a few stars show up through the light pollution, but all the same, covered by the dark cape of night the buildings turn beautiful, made mysterious by the moon.

David waits for the fireworks to begin. They’ve staked out a spot to the edge of the main courtyard in front of the castle, away from the largest crowds. He shifts from foot to foot, unaccountably restless.

“The guys are so jealous of us right now,” Pasta says, flashing the group chat on his phone screen. It’s full of messages like _How old are you again pasta_ and _where’s MY fireworks???_

Peter laughs, scrolling up on Pasta’s screen to read the parade of chirps. After a while, he looks up and fumbles out, “You know, I’m glad that— well, you know... I mean. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Favorite linies, Celly,” Pasta says. “We understand each other, the three of us.” He catches David’s eye, and his mouth curls into an automatic smile.

“It’s been nice. I don’t feel so different, with you.”

“We’re not so different,” David tells him honestly. “We’re not different at all.” Peter looks at him then— really looks, and opens his mouth to say—

“Then how come _he_ got to be holder of the tickets?” Pasta asks in faux outrage, delighted with his own joke even as Peter laughs and makes some joke back.

And then the first notes of music waft up from hidden speakers, and a sparkling net of lights projects over the castle and street. It’s so cheesy, and yet there’s something irresistible in it too. David feels the tingle of goosebumps under his skin.

The first fireworks scream upward and blossom into intersecting flowers, a feat of timing and art and— chemistry, and magic, and light. More appear, a full complement of firework bursts, emerging in precise pattern from behind the twinkling castle. One after another they explode.

David looks at Pasta — his face upturned, hair mussed by a day overfull with activities. Sensing the weight of David’s gaze, Pasta turns to look back. And he smiles— big, toothy, full of nothing but affection and trust — lit up by the quickly blossoming and dying flames.

Awash in the sublimity of it, David experiences a momentary loss of control.

Power bursts from him, expanding outward. Time slows, pulls apart like taffy. Sound goes strangely elongated, billowing and distorted and bassy until finally even the vibrations in the air slow to a stop and—

—all is silent.

Around them, the crowd of people stand frozen, caught in the space inside of an instant. Up in the sky, ten glowing firework bursts have utterly stopped, suspended in mid-unfurl.

“Oh,” David says stupidly. “Shit.”

Into the stillness, Peter says uncertainly, “Is that you?”

Pasta’s still looking at David, but his expression has gone slack with shock. “You—” he says, and stops. Falls as silent as everyone frozen around them.

David swallows hard and lets the truth find him at last. “Yes,” he admits. “It’s me. I’m like you, Peter. I'm a—” And even after everything he's seen and experienced today, he still can't _say_ it. He's been swallowing the word into silence for so long. _Mutant_.

“But you’re unregistered,” Peter says, even as Pasta lifts his face to stare at the eerie, frozen sky. 

“With my power, it’s not so hard to get around the tests.” He’s compelled to try to explain: “It’s funny, it wasn’t even that long ago. But it was so much worse back then. Registration, and how people treated you— and I was really strong. They wouldn’t have let me play hockey. Everyone would always say I cheated.”

They’re staring at him. He soldiers on, because there’s nowhere else to go. “But I don’t use it in games. Though maybe you don’t believe that.”

“I believe you,” Peter says quietly. “Of course.”

“I don’t use it, ever. This was an accident. In fact, how about I just turn time back on and—”

“Don’t.” It’s Pasta. His voice is soft, but it stops David in his tracks. “Not yet, please,” he continues.

With an edge of harshness, David asks, “Are you going to report me?”

Peter looks faintly scandalized by the question. Pasta shakes his head, wordless — some relief, even though it stings that Pasta’s gone silent now that David’s let his secret spill out into the world. It dawns on him that Pasta’s opinion of him has quietly become one of the most important pillars of his days, and David must anxiously await his judgement.

“How long can you hold it like this?” Peter asks curiously.

David shrugs. “We’re— outside time. It’s like this until you don’t want it anymore, and I take it back.”

Pasta nods thoughtfully, then steps away. Little uncertain steps at first, soon lengthening to a normal walking stride. He picks a path in between all the human statues, towards the castle.

“Can we do that?” Peter says, in surprise.

“See anyone who’s going to stop us?” David points out. They'll need to come back to their starting point when he resets time, otherwise people in the vicinity will be extremely confused, but they _can_ do it. So he follows Pasta, and Peter trails him.

It’s like walking through a museum diorama, or a three-dimensional photograph. David hasn’t done it on this scale since he was young and his ability first manifested. When he showed Milan — well, they mostly stayed indoors.

He never realized it was beautiful. 

Pasta stops at the foot of the castle. He stands, not quite poking at a moth spiraling towards a spotlight beam. It's small and frozen and suspended in mid air, in direct contradiction of ordinary physics. 

“Everything’s like this? Everywhere?” he asks, when David and Peter reach him.

David shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. I’m not sure how far it goes. Never tried to test it.”

Pasta blinks at the moth, stares up again at the sky. Finally he peers into David's face. Time is meaningless, but it feels like forever before gradually, the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Krej, you never told me you were a romantic,” he says.

“What.”

“You stopped time for me?"

David goes still, just for a second. Or maybe for eternity, as his heart dips and swoops in dizzying fashion. “Who says it was for you?” he attempts, but it’s obvious no one is fooled.

The hint of smile on Pasta’s face tips over into a brilliant beam. "Don't worry, I know. Look at the sky! It's beautiful. Look at _everything_." He glances at Peter, then steps up to David and tilts his head in an invitation that David can’t turn down. "You're amazing," Pasta tells him, and the raw belief in his voice stuns David like a jolt to the heart.

David kisses him, heedless of the audience, conscious mainly of the tiny sound that Pasta makes in the back of his throat.

When they separate, David does look at Peter, an apology ready in his mouth. He’s a bit sorry Peter has been subjected to all this when all he probably wanted was to ride a few roller coasters and not think about hockey for one day.

But Peter’s not covering his eyes. He’s staring openly, and even through the blue light being beamed at the castle, David can see the flush on his cheeks.

“Like what you see, Celly?” Pasta asks, his smile gone teasing.

“We _did_ come here to enhance our chemistry,” David says dryly. His pulse thumps through him like music, fierce and wanting. “Is it working?”

Peter’s completely tongue-tied, gaze darting between them. “It’s definitely working,” Pasta says with a grin.

Peter finally manages to fumble out, “Sorry— I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s nothing to be sorry about,” David tells him. So much for not getting attached, he thinks, without any shade of regret. In this infinite moment, he feels infinitely light, like they’re traveling up the tallest rollercoaster in the world together and anticipating the drop. “Let’s finish watching the fireworks, and then... well, we can talk about it. Right?”

“ _Talk_ ,” Pasta repeats, the insinuation clear. Peter laughs, still flushed. “Sure. Yes.”

When they’ve meandered back to their original spot, David closes his eyes. It’s the work of a moment to release the unconscious grasp of his metaphysical fingers on the taut skin of space-time. Power contracts, rushing through the world, re-gathering through him and in him and finding a home in the seat of his being. This is who he is.

He opens his eyes to a cacophony of half-exploded fireworks peaking, falling, and finally fizzling away to embers, smoke in the sky. Sound fills the air again, people talking and taking photographs, music starting up again exactly where it left off. No one else has even noticed anything unusual.

Life goes on.

He exhales deeply, letting his body adjust to the resuscitation of normal time. It’s always overwhelming, a sudden plunge into _too much_. In the midst of so much feeling, a soft touch on his wrist is the sensation that cuts through it all, calling him like the ring of a tuning fork. It’s Pasta, free with his personal space, watching David instead of the fireworks.

David swallows hard and savors the feeling of falling over the edge.

 

“It’s been a good day,” he muses, ensconced in the back seat of an Uber taking them to the hotel, with Pasta next to him and Peter in the front, sneaking frequent glances back at them.

“I told you Disneyland was a good idea,” Pasta crows. David finds himself laughing. It was a good idea. "You do have them sometimes," he says, sure to his core that Pasta hears what he's really saying.

He knows it won’t last forever, just as all the rides in the park have to eventually slow to a stop and everyone has to get off, however reluctant. There’s an endpoint somewhere; eventually the brute force cascade of causality leads them all in different, incompatible directions. Maybe even soon.

But David knows above all that time isn’t linear, not really, and that every moment is infinite. In this singular point of space-time, right here and right now— his heart soars in anticipation for the future yet to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Peter Cehlarik took a skate to the neck when he was playing in Sweden, and Adam McQuaid got a skate to the neck in the 2017 season, so I decided to handwave those events into one thing.
> 
> I have never been to Disneyland, so please excuse any gaps in my horrifically lazy research process.


End file.
